


a clan of many

by Rhiannon87



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: Before he was a clan of two, Din was a part of a tribe. A people.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 67





	a clan of many

**Author's Note:**

> Brought about by my fascination with Mandalorian-as-religion and my sadness that we barely see Din interacting with his tribe of Mandalorians before they're all killed.

Din hasn’t wept since the explosion, since the droid, since the warriors came and took him away. But he hasn’t stopped shaking, either.

“Here, little one.” One of the warriors returns from the front of the ship and unfolds a blanket, draping it around Din’s shoulders. “This should help.”

He tugs the blanket around himself and nods, looking past the armored man kneeling in front of him to the rest of the ship’s hold. It’s even larger than the hall in the center of town. But instead of being filled with music and dancing and laughter, it’s crammed with crates and weapons and warriors. So many of them, all in identical armor and helmets, moving weapons, tending to the wounded, talking amongst themselves. They all look so strong.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The warrior in front of him laughs a little. “You are not part of the tribe yet, so I cannot give you my name,” he says. “But we,” he gestures at the others in the hold, “are Mandalorians. Warriors and defenders.” He pauses for a moment, and his helmet dips slightly. “I am sorry we did not arrive sooner.”

Din nods. “Where are we going?”

“To our settlement on Thila. We’re safe from all threats there.”

“What could threaten you?” The question’s out before Din can think about it. But he can’t imagine anything that could hurt these people.

The warrior laughs again, though this time it sounds a little sad. “It’s a large galaxy, little one,” he says. “And we are not the only dangerous things in it.”

Din looks around the hold again. All he sees is armor and helmets in shades of blue and grey. No soft reds, no visible faces. “Did anyone else…?”

A heavy sigh, made a bit staticky by the helmet. “Some of the villagers survived,” he says. “But not many. None who wished to come with us.”

Not Mama and Papa. Din’s throat closes up, and he looks down, eyes burning. The warrior squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Din sniffles and looks up again, his face reflected dimly in the dark glass of the helmet. “Are they still fighting?”

“Hm?” The warrior looks over his shoulder for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. The fighting’s done.”

“You’re still wearing armor.”

The warrior nods. “We’re sworn to a creed,” he explains. “The Way of the Mandalore. We hold what is ours through strength. We defend those who seek our aid, and we take in those who are lost. We wear this,” he raps his knuckles against the chestplate, “to protect ourselves. And we allow no living thing to see our faces.”

Din frowns. “Why?”

“It is how we become Mandalorian. We are born with the faces of our parents. But to be Mandalorian means to swear yourself to something greater than bloodline or birthright. And so this,” he touches the side of his helmet, “becomes the face we show to the galaxy. This is the Way.”

He says it with simple devotion, but Din can hear the weight of those words. It’s reassuring, somehow. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“We will return to our home and see that you are cared for and trained until you are of age. If you do not wish to swear the Creed, you may go out into the world and make your own way. But if you do, you will become one of us.”

“A Mandalorian.”

“Yes. It’s not an easy path, little one. But if it calls to you, you will walk it with all of us.”

Din nods, looking around the hangar again. No one here is afraid. He wants to feel like that, protected and unafraid, wrapped up in armor so nothing can hurt him again. “I want to. I want to try.”

The warrior rises to his feet and squeezes Din’s shoulder again. “And try you shall.”

*

He’d tried to imagine what kind of place all these armored, masked warriors would live in. A military base, he guessed, like the kinds he saw on the holoreports. Lots of square buildings and open space and people marching around. A cold, unfeeling place.

“This way, little one.” His warrior--Stripes, Din has started calling him in his head, for the stripes on his shoulder and chest--guides him away from the ship and towards the town. And it is just that, a sprawling town at the base of a mountain. Buildings of every size and shape line the winding streets, colorful flags and banners waving in the breeze outside nearly every home. So much of it feels familiar: the smells of food cooking, the sounds of laughter and conversation, the sight of other children playing.

But it isn’t anything like his home. Everyone here is in armor, their faces hidden behind helmets. All of them are carrying weapons, too, blasters at their hips or rifles across their backs. It’s scary, and Din finds himself shrinking against Stripes in spite of himself.

“It’s all right,” Stripes says. “They’ll all protect you. Every one of them.”

“Why?” Din whispers. They don’t even know him.

“This is the Way.”

It’s not a satisfying answer, but he suspects it’s the only one he’ll get. Stripes leads him to a large stone building near the center of town, then down a flight of stairs. “You’ll need to see the armorer first,” he explains. “Then we’ll get you settled in.” 

A steady metallic pounding begins to fill Din’s ears as they start down the hall. It sounds like explosions, like marching droids, like a cellar door slamming shut, and suddenly he’s on the ground, shaking again as tears streak down his face.

“Whoa! Hey, hey, easy there, easy.” Stripes crouches beside him. “What’s wrong?”

Din shakes his head, fighting to get words out around the lump in his throat. “It’s too loud,” he manages, which isn’t the truth at all, but it’s the best he can do.

Stripes looks down the hallway, then back at him, then nods. “Okay. Come on.” He easily scoops Din into his arms and carries him away, back down the hall and into a side room. There’s a few tables inside, and a handful of Mandalorians seated around them.

“Oy! Clear out,” Stripes says, all the gentleness gone from his voice. “Got a new foundling, he needs some quiet.”

None of them protest. They stand, collecting their datapads and cards, and quickly make their way out. One of them pauses by the door, looking from him to Stripes and back. “How long?” she asks.

“Less than a day,” Stripes replies, before Din can figure out what she’s asking.

She makes a small, sad sound and nods. “You’ll be all right, little one,” she says, placing her fingers on the back of his hand. “Just give it some time.”

Stripes sets him down in a chair once the room’s empty. “Is this better?” Din nods and wipes his face on his sleeve again. Stripes nods back. “All right. Wait here for a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

Panic leaps in his chest at the thought of being alone, but he swallows it down and nods. “Okay.”

Stripes steps back through the door and speaks briefly to someone, then strides away. There’s a shadow in front of the door where he thinks someone might be standing. A guard, maybe? To make sure he doesn’t run off?

No. Stripes said they’re here to protect him. Whoever is outside is keeping him safe. Din lets out a shaky breath and relaxes into the chair, just a little. He’s safe here. No matter what else happens, he’s safe.

Stripes returns quickly, followed by a much shorter figure in gleaming silver and red armor. They have a large, red bird emblazoned on one shoulder, with flames shooting out from the wings. The figure nods to Stripes, who leans against the wall by the door, then sits down in the chair across from Din. “Hello, little one,” they say. “I’m the armorer here.”

“Are you in charge?”

“In some matters, yes.” They sound amused, though Din can’t figure out what’s funny. “I am when it comes to foundlings. What is your name?”

Din hesitates and glances back at Stripes, who gives him an encouraging nod. “Din Djarin.”

The armorer nods slowly and somberly, as if committing the name to memory. “How did he come to be in your care?” they ask, turning their head to look at Stripes as well.

“The Separatists,” Stripes spits, with enough venom in his voice that Din shrinks back. “The town was defenseless. It’s lucky we were in the area.”

“Indeed.” The armorer looks back at Din. “I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you to us,” they say softly. “But I am glad to have you here among us.”

“I--I’m glad to be here too.” Din looks up at them, at their impassive helmet, and offers a weak smile. 

“Good.” The armorer nods in what Din thinks is approval. “Now. While you are among us, you will be cared for. You will have food and shelter and protection. And you will have lessons, though they will likely be very different from your schooling before.”

They lean forward, resting their arms on the table, as if meeting his eyes. Din sits up and looks into the dark slit across their helmet. “There are many roles among our people,” they say. “The role you choose will be the training you get. So what do you want to do, Din?”

He furrows his brow, thinking, and looks away from the helmet. What does he want to do? He remembers sitting with Mama as she stitched up their clothes late into the night, watching her hands move and the needle flash. He remembers helping Papa cook on the nights he wasn’t too tired from work at the quarry. He remembers exploring the bluffs and ridges outside of town with his friends, pretending to be brave explorers on faraway planets.

He remembers the tears on Mama’s face as she hugged him goodbye. He remembers the anguish and fear on Papa’s face as he looked back one last time before the door closed and they were gone forever.

Din looks up at the armorer. “I want to fight.”

*

Din walks through the halls, shifting his shoulders under his armor. _His_ armor--not the practice armor he and his siblings in the Fighting Corps shared, but his. Crafted for him by the Armorer. A gift for his thirteenth Name Day, and for the ceremony today.

Today, he is of age. Today, he will swear the Creed and be a true Mandalorian.

He squares his shoulders as he descends the stairs to the armory. The sound of the Armorer’s work still unnerves him, but it doesn’t make him break down in tears anymore. Shellshock, the Mandalorians call it, and he’s not alone among the foundlings in dealing with it. One of his sisters in the Corps can’t bear thunderstorms; two of his brothers, twins rescued together, still have nightmares painfully often. His hesitance around the armory is understood. But it is something he must overcome. They all must. None of them can be ruled by fear.

Today, the armory is quiet. The work they needed to do for the ceremony is complete. Din stops just outside and looks around. The people he passed in the streets on the way here are the last ones who will have seen his face. It seems strange, that it should go so unnoticed. That no one will look at him properly one last time.

“This is the Way,” he whispers and steps inside.

The room is ringed with Mandalorians, all standing at attention, all facing the walls. Witnessing this moment without seeing him. And in the center of the room, sitting atop a low table, is his helmet. It’s plain durasteel, no adornments or attachments. He has to earn those. But it’s his. It’s a sign that he truly belongs.

The air is heavy with anticipation as he walks to the center of the room. He practiced this for days with Stripes (the nickname stuck, to the man’s amused dismay), and his friends who’ve already come of age told him what to expect. He can do this. He _has_ to do this.

“I am Din, a foundling of the Mandalorians.” He looks at the helmet as he speaks. “I come today to swear the Creed.”

“And to what do you swear?” The Armorer’s words ring out, both challenge and invitation.

Din closes his eyes for a moment. “I swear to defend what is ours with strength. I swear to uphold my word with honor. I swear to the defense of our clans and to any who would seek our aid.” Very nearly the words Stripes said to him all those years ago on the ship. “I swear to the care of foundlings and the growth of our tribe. I swear to raise my children as Mandalorians, and to obey the commands of Mandalore.”

Din picks up the helmet and looks at his reflection in the dark visor. It isn’t the last time he’ll see his face, of course. He can remove his helmet when he’s alone. But it still feels like he’s telling himself goodbye, in a way. “I wear this armor with honor and pride, for it is armor that unites us. I wield my weapons with strength and courage, for it is weapons that defend us.”

He takes a deep breath and slides the helmet over his head. It’s not a perfect fit; for someone his age, the helmet is made over-large and padded, so he won’t need a new one forged every six months. But it’s comfortable enough. He can make adjustments in his new, unshared room later.

“I will not let any living thing see my face,” he says, voice muffled and a bit echoey, “for I am a Mandalorian, and this helmet is how the galaxy will know us. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way!” The shout is joyful, ringing off the walls, and the gathered Mandalorians turn and rush to congratulate him. Din grins under the helmet as they clap him on the back and shake his hand. He’s not just an orphan or a foundling anymore. He is, at last, a Mandalorian.

*

“I think I’m gonna go back to Concord Dawn.” Lera’s balanced on her hands at the edge of the training hall, her casual tone belying none of the strain she must be feeling.

“Not gonna go anywhere with your bucket full of blood.” Din aims a kick at her arm as he passes; she pops up on one hand to dodge it, then swings her legs back down to earth. Din hops backwards to avoid getting hit in the face, she grabs at him once she’s standing, and there’s a brief, roughhousing scuffle. Neither of their hearts is really in it, though, so they release each other after a few moments with playful shoves.

Joran waits until they’ve finished to chime in with his thoughts. “You can’t go back to somewhere you’ve never been, Lera.”

She sniffs haughtily. “It’s where my parents came from,” she says. “Where our people are.”

Din’s attention immediately wanders as they start to argue. He’s learned his history, about the Mandalorian Civil Wars, about the divide between the Concordians who follow the old ways and the New Mandalorians who embrace pacifism. They can’t be all that pacifistic, though, since they won the war. He knows he probably should care more, but the politics of Mandalore have never mattered to him. He’s never set foot on the planet and he’s still a Mandalorian. The place doesn’t matter. The Creed does.

Movement in the corner of his eye brings him back, and he throws a hand up to catch the fist aimed at the side of his helmet. “What?”

“I _said,_ ” Joran repeats with amusement, “what’re you planning to do, Din? Stick with the Corps?”

Din releases his brother’s fist and shrugs. “Not sure.” He’s been on Thila for a decade now, training in every form of combat the Mandalorians can teach him. It’s been good. Better than he could have dreamed, the day they took him in. But he can’t stay here forever. The Fighting Corps has been strictly defensive, since the Republic became the Empire, unwilling to take the risk of leading an army back to their home. He understands the caution, respects it. But his skills are wasted here. He could be doing so much more for the tribe. “Been thinking about hunting.”

“Bounties?” Lera asks. Din nods, and she scoffs. “Figures.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You’ve never been good at fighting with others. Makes sense you’d want to strike out on your own.”

There’s nothing wrong with going solo, and they both know it. But the way she says it makes it sound like an insult, and he can’t let it go unanswered. Their scuffle this time lasts a lot longer. Din knocks her to the ground and pins her, only to freeze at the feeling of a knife against his side. “You two done?” Joran drawls from the sidelines.

Din slowly releases his grip on Lera’s arm, as she withdraws the blade with equal hesitance. Once it’s gone, though, the fight’s over, and he helps her to her feet. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re done.”

*

The settlement doesn’t have a proper spaceport, just a clearing outside the edge of town where there’s enough space for their ships. The Razor Crest is at the far edge of the field, and Din’s head pounds as he sprints towards it. Behind him, around him, other ships are firing up, people hauling crates and satchels, whatever of their belongings they can’t live without.

Din’s not on Thila much these days, but he’d just finished a profitable string of jobs and came back to turn in the spoils. Lucky he had. Or they would have been gone when he returned, and he would have been completely alone. Mandalore has fallen. The Empire has purged the planet, and from the message sent out from the capital city, they intend to purge Mandalorians from the galaxy entirely.

He slams a fist into the controls, and the ramp slowly begins to lower. The cold, impassive voice of the Imperial Moff still echoes in his ears. _“Mandalore is no more. The Mandalorian people are broken. And soon, not even your memory will remain.”_

They’d remained in contact with Mandalore. All the settlements did, as far as Din knows, the Mandalorians scattered but not fractured. A formality more than anything, a traditional tie to their ancestral home. And now, the location of every Mandalorian outpost in the galaxy is in the hands of the ISB.

“How many can you take?”

Din looks at the woman standing at the base of the ramp, at the gathered families behind her, then at his cargo hold. His damnably small cargo hold. “A dozen,” he says, hating the honest response. “Maybe fifteen, if there are little ones.”

She nods and begins picking groups out, sending them aboard his ship. Din trusts them to get settled and clambers into the cockpit. When the Armorer told them to abandon the settlement, they’d given encrypted codes to every pilot. Coordinates to far-off planets where they could hide.

There’s a clattering on the ladder, and Din half-turns to look. “Can you fit more up here?” It takes him a moment to place the woman’s name--Orana, one of the assistant quartermasters. Her infant daughter is just barely visible in a sling across her chest.

He glances around and nods. “Two adults, two children,” he says. The kids can sit on the adults’ laps in the chairs. It’ll be crowded, but anything to get more people to safety.

Orana nods and drops back down, and he can hear distant shouting over the sound of the engines powering up. “You’re clear, Din,” a voice comes over his comms. Stripes. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. “Survive. Protect them.”

“I will. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way.”

He closes the hatch and lifts off. Other smaller vessels are already airborne; the larger ships are still loading, able to carry more passengers. He looks out at the town, at his home of the last twenty years, then looks back to the stars. As long as he has his people, his tribe, then he will have a home. Mandalorian is not about a place, it is a creed. But he is going to miss this place.

He keys in the coordinates and waits while the nav computer calculates the jump. Nevarro. It’s far, far from Thila and Mandalore. Probably for the best.

Din sighs and pushes the Razor Crest into hyperspace. They will survive. Of at, at least, he can be sure.

*

His head pounds with every step as he descends into the sewers below the market. This last job involved bringing in a crew of three, and going after them alone probably wasn’t his best plan. But the promised payout had been too good to resist. So he took the job and got his head nearly bashed in for his troubles. His helmet’s intact, but badly damaged, a large crack splitting it from the crown to just below his visor. No one can see through the crack--he checked, repeatedly, in the small mirror on his ship--but it still makes him feel exposed.

Din heads straight for the armory, as always, but he slows as he gets closer. Familiar words echo out into the tunnel, and he stops just outside, listening as a young Mandalorian finishes swearing her Creed. “This is the Way!” she declares, and despite his pain, he joins in with the answering cry.

He lingers in the tunnel outside, waiting as the others congratulate her. He’s not on Nevarro very often, going weeks or even months between visits as he hunts across the galaxy. So he doesn’t know this girl, won’t intrude on her celebration. But when she emerges, puffed up with pride, he still gives her a nod. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” She bounds off, trailed by the other Mandalorians who attended. Less than half the number who’d been at his ceremony. Din sighs. They’ve lost so much, and rebuilt so little.

“Somethin’ try to bite your head off?”

Din tips his head back to look up at Paz. “Just a rifle stock to the face. Several times.” 

Paz scoffs. “Be careful, brother. Wouldn’t want anyone to get a good look at you like that.”

Din scowls as he saunters off. He’d come he from Concord Dawn, as did many of the other members of the Nevarro Covert, with their own ideas of hierarchy and status. It doesn’t sit well with him.

The Armorer, at least, holds to none of that. She’s more traditional than the Armorer of his youth, but Din finds comfort in her adherence to ritual. He always knows what’s expected of him with her. He takes a seat in front of the Forge and waits to be acknowledged.

She takes her time in putting away her tools, then finally sits down across from him. “You’ve taken damage.”

“Yes.” He places the stack of credits on the small table between them. Neither of them care for Imperial currency, but it was all the client had. And Din’s not about to walk away completely empty-handed out of spite. “It will need to be repaired.” And he’ll have to stay cooped up in a room until it’s done. He’s not looking forward to that.

“Did any see your face?”

“No.”

“Good.” She studies him for several long moments, then looks down at the pile of credits he’s brought in. “I can repair your helmet, if you wish it,” she says. “But your work for the tribe has merited a higher reward.”

Din blinks. “What sort of reward?”

“A helmet of beskar.”

His heart leaps in his chest. Beskar is rare beyond the telling of it, with most of it looted during the Purge and locked up in Imperial vaults. To be offered even a single piece of beskar equipment is an incredible gift. “I would be honored to accept,” he says gravely. “Thank you.”

She nods and stands, beginning to gather her equipment. Din sits and watches. Part of her tradition requires that a Mandalorian witness the crafting of any new armor they are to wear. The sounds of the armory still dredge up the memories of the attack on his childhood home, even after so many years. He just makes himself breathe through it while she works.

After what seems like a brief eternity, she lifts the completed helmet from the Forge. Din stands to accept it, holding it carefully in his hands. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Wear it with pride.” She nods, dismissing him, and Din strides back into the tunnels, up the stairs, and back onto the streets. He doesn’t have a room in the Covert; he’s away far too often for them to spare the space. If he wants privacy, he has to go back to the Crest.

Once the ship is sealed up, he wedges himself into the tiny fresher and lifts off his old helmet. His reflection shows a black eye and a gash down the front of his face, a match to the damage on his helmet. He prods at the injuries for a moment, then shakes his head and picks up the beskar helmet. It’s heavier in his hands and even in the weak light of his ship, the metal gleams.

Din takes a deep breath and slips it on. It fits comfortably, a reassuring weight protecting him from the world. It doesn’t look like him, not yet; he’s grown used to the reflection of his old helmet as the face he presents to the galaxy. And he could paint the beskar to look more like the old one.

He turns his head from side to side, studying himself, then shakes his head. No, no paint. He won’t cover this up. Let everyone see what he’s earned. 

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes about choices I made in this story.
> 
> One, I opted not to use Mando'a, because they don't speak it in the show. I felt like if anyone would use it, it'd be Din's traditionalists, and the fact that they don't made me decide against it. (I love seeing it in other fics though!) I also like the idea that fluency in the language is something that's perhaps been lost as the nature of being a Mandalorian has changed.
> 
> Two, the Creed that Din swears is based on the Resol'nare, with some changes to adapt for the specific details of his group's traditions (and the removal of the language aspect).
> 
> Three, I don't know that we can trust Bo-Katan as a reliable narrator on the nature of Din's group of Mandalorians. She calls them the Children of the Watch, a cult of zealots; Din and his group only ever refer to themselves as Mandalorians or the tribe. They clearly have some connection to Death Watch, given the armor in Din's flashback, but based on timelines and ideologies I'm not sold on them being a direct descendant of Death Watch. They may well just think of themselves as Mandalorians, and that's the angle I went with here. (Nothing is more Mandalorian than thinking your particular group of Mandalorians are the only real Mandalorians, after all.)
> 
> And four, I had Din's Mando upbringing mostly set on Thila and not Nevarro because I assume the Nevarro Covert was established after the Purge. The Purge would have taken place only about 10 years before the start of the series, assuming that it happened shortly after Bo-Katan gained the darksaber. So yes, I added yet another home for this poor man to lose. Sorry.


End file.
